After the funeral, my son drove me to a forest road and said, “This is your place now.”
I didnt cry when my husband died. Not because I hadnt loved himwed spent forty-two years together, through hardship, illness, and the few fleeting joys life had spared us. The tears were stuck somewhere deep inside, like a stone in my throat. They wouldnt comenot at the graveside, not later, when the neighbour brought a casserole and said, “You hang in there, Margaret.” I nodded, smiled politely, and shut the door.
Andrewmy sonstood beside me at the funeral. Tall, well-dressed in a black suit that probably cost more than my pension for half a year. He held my elbow, the way polite families do, but his grip was cold. Not from the weatherfrom indifference. As if I were an obligation. A burden.
At the wake, he gave speeches. Spoke well, with pauses and gestures. Everyone nodded, praising him: “What a son! So handsome! So clever!” I sat in the corner and watched him. His faceso familiar, yet so strange. His eyes were mine. His nose, his fathers. His smile belonged to someone else. A man whod stopped being my son long ago.
Three days after the funeral, he came to my house. I was making coffeestrong, with milk, no sugar, just as my husband had liked it. Old habits linger. Andrew sat at the kitchen table and slid the car keys and my passport toward me.
“Mum,” he said, “Ive thought it through. Youd be better off in a care home. In the countryside. Quiet, peaceful, good care. Clean air, people your age. No need to rattle around this big house alone. You saw how Dad suffered You might”
He didnt finish. But I understood. He meant, *You might die soon.* Or rather, *You should die soon. So youre not in my way.*
I stayed silent. Drank the coffee. Scalded my lips. But I drank itto keep from shaking, from screaming, from hurling the cup at his head.
“The house,” he began, “the business theyre mine now. Dad transferred everything to me a year ago. You know how he wasalways thinking ahead. Didnt want any arguments.”
I knew. Id known my husband had signed everything over without asking me. I hadnt objected. Foolishly, Id thought, *Let him have it. As long as he stays close. As long as he cares.*
“You understand,” he went on, “this house isnt right for you alone. You wont cope. Youre tired. Youre old.”
He said the last word softly, almost kindly. Like a diagnosis. Like I was a broken thing to be discarded.
“When?” I asked.
Hed expected tears, shouts, threats. I just said, “When?”
“Tomorrow morning,” he answered. “Ill drive you. Its all arranged. Dont bother packingtheyll have everything. Just take the essentials. And dont worry. Ill visit.”
He lied. I knew he wouldnt. Not once.
In the morning, he pulled up in his Mercedes. I came out with a suitcaseinside, a photo of my husband, my passport, a little money Id tucked away over the years, and a notebook of recipes. The ones hed loved.
Andrew tossed my case into the boot like a sack of potatoes. Opened the door for me. I sat in the back. He didnt say “Lets go.” Just started the engine and pulled away.
We drove in silence. The city faded, then the suburbs, then nothing but trees. The road narrowed to a dirt track, bumpy and uneven. I stared out the window. Trees. Silence. Birds. Beauty. And fear.
“Andrew,” I said, “where exactly is this home?”
He didnt answer at first. Then, over his shoulder: “Youll see.”
Twenty minutes later, he turned onto a narrow forest lane. The car jolted over roots. I gripped the door handle. My heart poundednot from the shaking, but from dread.
He stopped the car. Got out. Opened my door. I stepped onto the dirt. No buildings. No fences. Just trees. Thick, dark, wordless.
“Here,” he said. “Your place.”
I looked around. At him. At his facecalm, almost pleased.
“What do you mean, *my place*?”
“Exactly that,” he said. “You know. Its better here. Quiet. Peaceful. No one will bother you.”
He set a bag beside me. Enough food for a couple of days. After that? Well, youre a clever woman. Youll manage.
My mind went blank. White noise. As if the world had been muted.
“Youre leaving me? Here? In the woods?”
He shrugged.
“Not leaving. Letting go. Youll be gone soon anyway. What do you need a house for? A city? Youre in my way. Honestly. Youre a reminderof things Im supposed to feel. I dont want to. Ive got my own life. A wife. Kids they dont want a grandma around. Especially not a tired one.”
He said it lightly. Like reading a shopping list.
“Andrew,” I whispered. “Im your mother.”
“*Were*,” he corrected. “Now youre a burden. Sorry. But this is better.”
He got in the car. Started the engine. I grabbed the door handle.
“Andrew! Wait! IllIll sign it all over! The house, the money, everything! Just dont leave me here!”
He hit the gas. The car lurched forward. I fell. Hit my knee on a rock. Screamed. Crawled after the car. He didnt look back.
I sat on the ground. Held my knee. Blood seeped through my tights. The pain was there, but deeperwhere my heart used to be.
I opened the bag. Water. Sandwiches. A chocolate bar. Andrew mustve decided I shouldnt die *immediately*. So his conscience stayed clean. So he could say, “I gave her a chance.”
I ate the chocolate. Drank the water. Stood. Looked around.
Forest. Nothing but forest. No roads. No paths. Just animal tracks. And silence. So thick it rang in my ears.
I walked. No direction. Just walked. Maybe toward a road. Maybe toward a river. Maybe toward death. I didnt care.
An hour later, I found a stream. Clear, shallow. Drank from my hands. Washed my face. Stared at my reflection. Grey hair. Wrinkles. Empty eyes. Like no one was left inside.
*”Youre old,”* hed said.
Yes. But not dead.
I spent the night under a pine tree. Curled up. Covered with my coat. Shakingnot from cold, but rage. Hurt. Pain.
I thought of my husband. How hed laughed. How hed made me mint tea when I was ill. How hed held my hand when I was afraid. How hed said, *”Youre my rock.”* Now I was nothing. Discarded. Trash.
But I wouldnt die here. Not like this.
At dawn, I walked. All day. No purpose. Just to keep moving. To stay sane.
On the third day, I found a road. Dirt, not tarmac. But a road. People used it. I followed it.
An hour later, a lorry stopped. The drivera man in his fifties, kind-facedleaned out.
“Love, where you headed?”
I didnt know. Said the first thing that came to mind:
“To the city. To my son.”
He nodded. Opened the door. “Hop in.”
I sat in silence. He didnt ask questions. Just turned on the radio. An old song played. I closed my eyes. Cried. Quietly. The tears that hadnt come for days now poured.
He dropped me at the bus station.
“Here,” he said, handing me a bottle of water and a sandwich. “Dont fret. Itll sort itself out.”
I nodded. Thanked him. Got out.
In the city, I went to the police. Told them everything. No embellishments. No tears. Just facts.
The officer listened. Wrote notes. Shook his head.
“You understand, without proof, theres nothing we can do? He didnt hit you. Didnt threaten you. Just left you in the woods. You survived. Thats good. But its not a crime. Not legally.”
I stared at him. At his uniform. At his indifferent eyes.
“So he can do it again? To someone else? And nothing happens?”
“If theres no proofyes,” he said. “Try a solicitor. Or social services. Maybe theyll help with housing.”
I left. Stood in the street. A light rain began. People hurried past. No one looked at the old woman with a bag.
I went to the library. Used the free internet. Searched. Read. Learned. Wrote lettersto the Crown Prosecution Service, to human rights groups, to newspapers, to blogs. Everywhere.
A week later, a local journalist called. Young. Eyes bright.
“Margaret, tell me everything. Well publish it. People should know.”
I told her. No embellishments. No tears. Just facts.
The article ran three days later. Headline: *”Son Abandons Mother in Woods: ‘This Is Your Place Now.'”*
My photofrom the funeral. Grey dress. Empty eyes.
Within hourshundreds of comments. Thousands of shares. People were outraged. Crying. Demanding justice.
A day laterAndrew called.
“Mum,” his voice shook, “what have you *done*?”
“Ive lived,” I said.
“Youre ruining me! I lost my job! My wife left! The kids are ashamed to go to school! Do you *understand*?”
“I do,” I said. “You left me in the woods. I told the world. Fairs fair.”
“IIll come. Take you back. Give you the house. The money. Everything!”
“Too late,” I said. “I dont want your house. I want you to understand. A mother isnt trash. Old age isnt a death sentence. A person isnt a thing.”
Silence. Thensobs. Real ones. The first in his life.
“Sorry,” he whispered. “Im sorry”
“Ill forgive you,” I said. “When you visit, bring flowers. Not money. Not the house. Flowers. And say, *’Mum, I love you.’* Ill believe you. If you mean it.”
He came a week later. Brought tulips. Yellow onesmy favourite. Knelt. Cried. Kissed my hands.
I watched him. His tears. His fear. His guilt.
“Get up,” I said. “Im not God. Im your mother. And I forgive you.”
Now I dont live in a care home. Or his house. I rent a small room by the sea. With a balcony. Seagulls. Sunlight.
Andrew visits weekly. Brings food. Flowers. Tells me about the kids. His work. His life.
Hes changed. Or pretends to. I dont care. I see his eyesfull of fear now. Fear of losing me again. Fear of never being forgiven.
I didnt go back. Didnt live under his roof. But I didnt cast him out. Because everyone deserves redemption. Even a son who left his mother in the woods.
Some evenings, I stand on the balcony. Watch the sea. Think of my husband. How hed be proudnot that I survived, but that I didnt turn bitter. Didnt break. Didnt become what he wantedquiet, obedient, forgotten.
Im alive. Im strong. Im a mother.
And my place isnt in the woods. Not in a home. But where *I* choose.
Todayby the sea. Tomorrowmaybe the mountains. Or a new flat. With grandchildren. With my son. With tulips on the windowsill.
Because Im not a thing. Not a burden. Not “*old*.”
Im a person. And I have a rightto live. To love. To respect.
Even if I was left in the woods.
Even if they said, *”This is your place.”*
I chose another place.
And thats my right.
